Old School Scoundrel: Terry-Thomas

Terry-Thomas was a gifted comedic writer, comic actor, raconteur, ladies man, television pioneer and film star. A man of infinite cheek and charm; when in Hollywood he compiled a form guide of leading starlets breasts. Dining with Pablo Picasso he enquired of the artist; “does anybody ever say to you, can I have a word in your eye?”

But beyond these accomplishments, the fruity voice and rich vocabulary he was a true sartorialist. Despite all appearances Terry-Thomas, or Thomas Terry Hoar Stevens as he was christened, was born into a lower middle class family in the London suburb of North Finchley.

The phrase “dress for the job you want not the job you’ve got” could have been created for Terry-Thomas, although he dressed not just for a job but for a new life. Desperate to outdistance the humdrum middle-class life of his parents, clothes become an essential part of his escape kit.

His attention to detail and single-minded pursuit of distinction through dress no matter the circumstances are examples any student of style would do well to ape.

For his first job as a junior transport clerk at Smithfield Meat Market he turned up wearing a taupe double breasted suit and green pork pie hat, sporting a clove carnation and cigarette holder, two items that would latter become trademarks of his wardrobe. Known by his colleagues as the man in the carpet slippers, because of his predilection for suede shoes, in an environment of grey and blood stained aprons he cut a peculiarly compelling figure. It was here that he also developed his knack for jokes and comic capering.

In 1942 Terry-Thomas received what he described characteristically as; “a cunningly worded invitation to join the Army”.  Yet even the strictures of service life didn’t stop him, much to the occasional annoyance of superiors. Though not an officer himself, he continued to sport brown suede shoes with his Khakis  – a colour reserved for officers – and even sought out former tailors to make his own type of bespoke battle dress. Entering the forces entertainment corps he readopted his cigarette holder and cut such a dash he was regularly saluted as an officer.

When fame and money finally came his way the lessons were well learned, and he was able to give them full expression. A founding member of London’s Waistcoat Club he amassed a collection of 80 bespoke suits, 22 dinner jackets and tail suits and 150 waistcoats. Of this last garment he had every conceivable material and wore them religiously. Top pockets on suits were cut 7 inches long to accommodate his cigarette holders and he even had his boxer shorts made bespoke. He never left the house without a clove carnation, even if he were “slipping out to the pub”.

The only time TT was unable to pursue this life long cause was towards the end of his innings when Parkinson’s disease tragically and slowly robbed him of his wit, his money and eventually his beloved wardrobe.

If you’re tempted to read more on loves, life and wardrobe of Terry-Thomas then I can heartily recommend Graham McCann’s entertaining biography entitled ‘Bounder!’.

Style Movie: A Room With A View

Merchant Ivory productions were some of the few films that were marketed, formally and by word of mouth, by the mere fact that they were ‘Merchant Ivory productions.’ Whereas other films would be related to as ‘the new Spielberg’, ‘that Tom Cruise picture’ or as the vehicle of some other individual of sufficient wattage, those of Ismail Merchant and James Ivory, in a similar manner to the Coen brothers, were accorded the grand respect of being referred to as a product of the producer and director – all else in the production, no matter how starry their name, were of lower billing. For it is a mark of respect, and admiration, that the creative force, and not the marketing force, should be so highly perceived; in much the same way that an eager public would flock to see ‘the new Picasso’ rather than ‘a painting featuring Picasso’s mistress.’

Artistic, brimming with beauty and unashamedly nostalgic, these productions, invariably period dramas, have offered the movie aesthete an escape from the humdrum of Hollywood. The San Francisco Chronicle once wrote that the Merchant Ivory partnership connoted a genre in itself; “stuffy, worthy, well-acted entertainment, sumptuous in its sets.” ‘A Room with a View’ is without doubt one of the most famous, and most admired, of these productions. Set in Edwardian England, boasting Helena Bonham Carter, Daniel Day Lewis, a Puccini soundtrack, a fistful of Oscars and fabulous costumes, it is a paean to the triumph of beauty over social convention.

Costume plays a particularly important part in the story. The heroine, Lucy, finds herself drawn between the cultural snob and dandy, Cecil Vyse and the somewhat less refined and brooding George Emerson. However, despite the efforts of representation in the film, to convey Vyse as a cold, mirror-gazing fop and Emerson as a less decorated, more wholesome individual, it is difficult to regard all the ensembles as anything but perfect examples of Edwardian refinement. These bows and boaters mingle, as I have written before, perfectly with nature and the architecture that surrounds them. And, more than that, they illustrate so very well that, while certainly far more ornamental than gentlemen of today deign to be, that the ornament is not exaggerated, nor is the variety of ensembles without purpose or consideration of practicality or situation.

Take Daniel Day Lewis’ brilliantly insipid Cecil Vyse; though high starched collared, silk cravatted and pearl pinned, Vyse cannot possibly be ridiculed for ‘impracticalities’ of dress or ‘inappropriate elegance’ in simple surroundings. While always waistcoated, he adopts a jacket correct for the circumstance. Vyse in the Surrey summertime wears a lightweight linen jacket of casual structure when reading aloud during a game of tennis, wears a smarter white jacket to receive engagement well-wishers and when returning to town, the more formal Edwardian frock coat and bowler hat – reflecting his departure from the informality of the country. When in Italy, the gentlemen adopt lighter colours and lighter weights of fabric but never allow the temperature to alter their ensemble entirely. Even the younger gentlemen, enjoying a summer away from school, wear shirts, ties, striped jackets and cotton waistcoats.

Though invariably white shirted, the gentlemen exhibited great variety of neckwear, waistcoats, hats and footwear – is there anything more divine than a creamy white lower half in summertime? – and offered excellent reasons, both practical and aesthetic, for adopting lighter colours in the warmer months. There were also numerous reminders that wearing trousers properly, on the waist, is far more flattering than wearing them halfway down one’s legs.

Lessons from Niv

Richard Torregrossa’s book on Cary Grant carries the following quote from the great man;

“One pretends to do something, or copy someone or some teacher, until it can be done confidently and easily in what becomes one’s own manner.”

The look above adopted by David Niven is one of my favourites, and frequently appears in his films of the early and mid 60’s. The combination of charcoal-grey flannel suit and highly reflective silver tie conveys purpose with just a hint of grandeur and glamour. I’ve frequently ripped-off this look, even applying the same elements to midnight blue suits, with great affect.

While most people would list Cary Grant amongst their sartorial mentors few mention fellow actor David Niven.

Cary Grant was the product of a poor working class family, and learnt much of his sartorial artistry from earlier generations of film star. Conversely, David Niven was from the upper-middle class and the product of Public Schools (read Private if you’re American) and Sandhurst. Despite being steeped in the establishment, he was known as something of a rebel. During his school days he had a prostitute for a girlfriend and in the army had a reputation for seducing other officers’ wives.

These features of background and character are most evident in his wardrobe. Immaculately tailored suits could be combined with more expressive shirt and tie options. A dinner jacket might be paired with a pink dress shirt or, as above, a charcoal grey flannel suit with a highly reflective silver tie. And far more than Grant, Niven played with some of the fashions of whatever decade he found himself in. The subtle yet self aware way in which he did means even these looks don’t really date.

Niven was also able to relax in his wardrobe, with that roguish element of his character shining through. As always, beautiful and often simple individual items of clothing were worn comfortably, without decoration or apparent care. This is a particular characteristic of the English public school boy –what I term scruff chic.

Whereas Cary Grant was the creation of Archie Leach, Niv was always Niv. He is a worthy mentor to students of good dress.

Style Movie: Coco Avant Chanel

One of the most interesting things about ‘Coco Avant Chanel’ was that for all its triumphant, feminist messages about suffragette-era women, succeeding ‘in a man’s world’, and rejection of conformity (including the institution of marriage), it actually paid peculiar, and not necessarily intentional, homage to the man.

Certainly, the ‘beast’ was duly embarrassed; boorish aristocrats proved to be no match for the cutting wit of little Coco, very well played by Audrey Tatou, who flicked her French fingers facetiously, clucked disapprovingly and smoked incessantly whilst the men surrounding her somehow succumbed to her interesting beauty and evident charm. She practically devoured Balsan, the boozy beast in the castle, and though she was certainly ‘targeted’ by the love interest, Arthur ‘Boy’ Capel, you couldn’t help but conclude it was she who had fired the arrow.

However, the reason the film was made was not because Chanel was simply another story of a determined woman who had battled sexism and prejudice before feminism had been invented, but because she was a fashion designer. The message of the film was valid but I was far more interested in what had possessed this sometime milliner, what had influenced her in achieving not, as some have concluded, merely parity with men but a style of such simplicity and grace that it completely changed the way males and females perceive dress.

The irony of the film is that Chanel inadvertently credits the timelessness and refined simplicity of Edwardian male style. It’s obvious that she isn’t wearing trousers, boaters, shirts and jackets simply because she is rebelling but because they appeal to her. And, of course, though men are blamed by Chanel for imprisoning women in the over-elaborate dresses of the early 20th century, she also admires them for the way they wear their own clothing. She copies them, borrows from them and not only finds inspiration in them but also genuine friendship; it’s very odd that so many have written it up as a battling, feminist tour de force.

To view her adaption of male clothing, pyjamas and rejection of frilly fuss as merely bog-standard, feminist nose-thumbing is to miss the point; Coco Chanel was an aesthete who happened to respect male clothing more than female clothing and it was clear she had not merely made a self-conscious decision to reject male oppression. Some of her comments about corsets and skin-exposure did have resonance of suffragette grievances but largely, her adjustment of female clothing seemed to have a lot more to do with her distaste for overcooked fashions.

Beautifully presented, Anne Fontaine’s film has plenty of examples of majestic menswear; glorious white tie, country tweeds and pre-war pinstripes. As much as it is a toast to one of the most influential personages in fashion, and one of the most famous women of the twentieth century, it is also a nod to Chanel’s famous line; “Fashion fades; only style remains the same.”

Style Icon: Michael Jackson

In the last few weeks, about one particular person, there have been written such headlines, obituaries, paragraphs, bloglines, Tweets and tributes that, if piled all together in some mausoleum of dedication, would surely be visible from space. Superlatives have been exhausted; the end of an era has been marked. Michael Jackson’s passing has dominated the thoughts of all from the breakfast to the boardroom table. Of his status as an entertainer, much has been said. Of his unconventional childhood, much has been lamented. He has been praised and pitied; scorned and celebrated. An awesome showman, he could write and produce his own music; he danced like no other, inspiring a generation of Jackson-lite dancers. He was equipped with a unique voice, a taste for fantasy and an enduring Peter Pan personality.

What has received less mention is Jackson’s very evident, somewhat controversial, taste in clothing. By some he is cited as the last example of extrovert dandyism; in whatever theme of clothing he currently favoured whether it be creamy fedoras, glittering socks, diamante gloves, Napoleonic tunics, wing collars or sequinned blazers. Jackson dressed like no one else. In many ways his extravagance was a renaissance of fashion showmanship unseen in centuries. For while it was undoubtedly idiosyncratic, it was actually well conceived. To some it was predictably vulgar, but to many it was an appealing extension of the Jackson aesthetic; a taste that embraced antiques, classic cinema, exotic animal pets, theme parks and history. He was evidently a curious and eager materialist who found delight in the sort of bauble and bangle that the most outrageous fop would question. But it was not only a willingness to wear what others might not wear; Jackson’s wardrobe was a premier example of personal couture. If Mr Jackson had the taste for a suit of armour, Mr Jackson would get a suit of armour. Indeed, when interviewed, Jackson’s costume designers, in acknowledging that Jackson never wore the same thing twice, indicated that Jackson was always the final arbiter on his clothing choices. But he was not simply an isolated fantasist. Jackson even had method to his adoption of faux-regimental clothing, considering that they ‘demanded attention’ had ‘clean lines’ and ‘fit…almost like dance clothes.’

It was not only that Jackson created his own unique wardrobe. He also, due to his magnificent fame, manipulated the mindset of a generation. I remember adopting some of Jackson’s milder clothing curiosities, a small trilby or penny loafer, and receiving my fair share of the humdrum commentary; “Look, it’s Jacko”, “Hey, MJ!”, “Ow!” For as much as penny loafers belong to a generation of Ivy Leaguers, for many younger people they are the stage-shoe of the King of Pop, and try as contemporary celebrities might to consistently adopt fedoras into their everyday headgear, they cannot shake off the glitter of mid-career Michael.

Some outfits of his in particular stand strong in the memory. The Billie Jean outfit, throughout the years of stage performance, remained roughly the same; a simple white t-shirt, skinny black trousers, a black trilby, black loafers and importantly, white diamante socks and a black sequinned jacket. A stage look, no doubt but wonderfully effective; the eye followed the gleaming socks in the moonwalk, the trilby was a clever prop. And as stagey as it appears, Jackson actually adopted more outrageous ensembles.

On a visit to the Reagan White House, Jackson was auspiciously centre stage. With a white wing collar shirt, black trousers, trademark white socks and opera pumps Jackson wore a museum-worthy creation half cartoon, half regimental elegance; a glittering blue mess jacket with light blue-edged lapels, dazzling gold epaulettes, gold sash and gold buttons – on his right hand he wore the legendary white sequinned glove. Such brazen pomp had probably never before been seen at the White House. As bizarre as the costume sounds, Jackson cut a marvellous, and extraordinarily gilded, figure; striding out onto the lawn between Reagan and his wife. For others, it would be impossible to imitate – for Jackson it was natural.

The one outfit that I remember, as a child, I ached to imitate was the creamy, faintly pin-striped suit from ‘Smooth Criminal.’ With a blue satin silk shirt, cream knit tie, spats and white fedora it was practically a parody of the gangster element which Jackson’s video highlighted. And yet it was simply the most wonderful thing I had seen. It wasn’t the white knight poetry of it, the obsession with Jackson himself or even the fact that I adored the song; Jackson simply dazzled.